Gravity ceased.
There was a blessed moment of weightlessness and then the savage bite of steel stairs in his back. He rolled once, feeling his scalp tear above his ear then his feet hit the ground, legs buckling as he collapsed to his side.
His vision roiled as if stirred from within his skull. A tattoo of pain throbbed in his back. When he managed to raise himself onto an elbow, the wet ground tilted beneath him.
Thomas’s footsteps clanged down the stairs as another sound built in the air. It was a deep revving layered by other throaty grumbles. The noise climbed and climbed until it overshadowed Thomas’s approach. The soldier stopped a foot away and looked down at him.
“Man, you are fuckin’ ugly. Think I improved your looks by booting your ass down those stairs.”
The sound outside the walls slowly died, one by one, and he realized it was engines, many engines all growling together. Footsteps came from behind him, and he had enough strength to turn his head and see Murray moving toward the steel door set in the concrete.
“Remember what he said. He’s interested in him, so don’t kill him,” Murray called as he unbolted the door and swung it wide. He stepped outside and yelled something Quinn didn’t understand. The fog was slowly lifting from the ground, but it was growing in his head. Hot wetness drenched the side of his face and pooled near his collar. He sat up and tried to climb to his hands and knees, but Thomas pushed him over with a boot.
“Stay the fuck down or I’ll put a round through that fucked up face of yours.”
Murray returned from outside the wall, and Quinn wiped at the blood that was beginning to run in his eye. There was someone with Murray, many someones. People streamed through the door, their clothing dirty and torn, faces grimy, hair greased. Most were men, but a few women mingled with them, their eyes cold and narrowed as they spotted him lying on the ground. He counted twenty of them before they split into two groups, making room for a solitary figure that strode through the doorway, stopping several paces from where Quinn lay.
The man was bald, with a healing gouge along the top of his scalp. He wore a blond goatee, and it rippled around his mouth as he smiled revealing the empty space where his upper teeth should’ve been. He sauntered closer and knelt beside Quinn, bringing his face close to his.
“You sure have one of those unforgettable faces,” the man said. His voice was like gravel sliding on concrete. A wave of chuckling rolled through the mass of people behind him, but he didn’t stop looking at Quinn. “You believe in serendipity, my friend? Because finding you here is nothing less than a miracle.” The man stroked his goatee with his left hand, and Quinn saw the clotted stumps sewn shut where his ring and pinkie fingers were missing. “Left me to die in that ditch and stole my bitch.” Laughter again from the group. He stood and drew out an automatic pistol, turning to where Thomas watched.
“You Thomas?” the man said. Thomas nodded, stepping forward to hold out a hand.
“And you’re Bracken.” They shook.
“So this is Murray?” Bracken said, pointing at the other soldier.
“That’s me,” Murray said.
Bracken raised the pistol and shot Murray through the forehead. Brain matter flew in streamers out the back of the man’s skull, and his eyes crossed before falling to his knees then his face. Bracken turned the pistol on Thomas whose mouth hung wide, his hands open at his sides.
“Don’t shoot me! Don’t, please!” Thomas yelled, holding his palms out.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t,” Bracken said, tilting his head to one side.
“Because I got you in. I guided you here. We have a deal. Please. I can fight. I know my way around the camp better than anyone.”